The Burdens of the Ages
by Losseniaiel
Summary: Gil-galad struggles to come to terms with the burdens placed upon him as High King. Elrond and Elros make their presence felt.


                                                                                    **The Burdens of the Ages**

**Disclaimers: **All the characters etc. belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate.  I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money.

**Rating:** PG.

**Summary:** Gil-galad struggles to come to terms with the burdens placed upon him as High King.  Elrond and Elros make their presence felt.

**Feedback:** please … please.

*bows to Nemis in thanks for betaing*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gil-galad stood on the shoreline, staring bleakly out to sea.  His feet were in the water and salt spray lashed at him in the gathering dusk, but he did not care that his breeches were sodden to the knee, nor that even his deep blue tunic with its silver embroidery was soaked through, clinging to his skin.  He was cold, silent, and sick to the bone with dread.

He fingered his cuff with distaste written across his face, feeling the weight of his sword at his side.

_*What more is there to me in these dark times than the colours of my father, of which I am unworthy, and a strong arm to lift both sword and spear in battle?  The High King is all that remains and Ereinion has fled Ilúvatar alone knows where.*_

Long years had passed, or so it seemed, since Eärendil had sailed into the West and Elwing had flung herself into the sea.  Long years … and yet still Morgoth's tyrannical shadow spread ever outwards across Middle-earth.  Before him the Free People, so divided by their own strife, fell, and Gil-galad was left here, clinging to this last outpost, and now even hope had deserted him.

_*What can I do?  Time and again we throw all that we have against him, and without fail we are defeated.  Is this why my forefathers returned to Middle-earth?  To preside over our own destruction and his merciless victory?  Is this why the Valar opposed our departure?*_

The twilit sky darkened still further as storm clouds gathered, mirroring his mood.

The council that afternoon had been fruitless, suggestion after suggestion coming to nothing.  Only Círdan had looked at him with sympathy in his pale eyes.  All the others were by turns exasperated and enraged, demanding solutions when he had none, answers to the unanswerable.

_*They see only this crown, and expect me to follow in the footsteps of Fingolfin and Fingon, not noticing that I am as frail and fearful as they are, and that I have no idea how to overcome this darkness…*_

He bent down, shivering at the touch of the chilly brine on his skin, and scooped up a handful of worn pebbles.  Scrutinising them for a moment, he found no inspiration, and began to toss them far out into the grey waters, much as he had done long ago as a child with a lighter heart.

"I."

Splash.

"Do."

Splash.

"Not."

Splash.

"Know."

Splash.

"What."

Splash.

"I."

Splash.

"Am."

Splash.

"To."

Splash.

"Do."

Instead of a splash, Gil-galad heard the indignant squawk of a seabird caught off its guard once the last stone had left his hand.  He laughed mirthlessly and returned his gaze to the distant horizon.

"Should I just give in?  Is the exercise of my pitiful wisdom in vain?" he asked rhetorically.

Another gust of wind buffeted him, and he wrapped his arms around himself in a defensive gesture.

"Aye.  I know I shall not, for the task is given to me as High King to resist all evil until I too lie dead on the field of battle.  Indeed, as the road to Valinor is barred to us I would willingly choose death rather than bow before Morgoth, but I fear that at the end both choices will lead me and the folk who look to me to the same fate."

His words hung dully in the wind as, staring unseeingly into the gloom he searched his soul, the utmost depths of his being, but he found there no glimmer of light.  He could not see the wisdom which others sought in him, nor the strength.

_*I am a fool to believe that I could take my father's place.  Why do I continue this struggle?  I should turn this burden over to others who are more suited to it…*_

He cradled the crown between his hands, examining it with great loathing.

"Ada!" A shout pierced the air, and another, graver voice joined it.  "Ada!"

Turning slowly he saw two small elflings hurtling down the beach towards him.  Stepping out of the waves he caught a fragile body in each arm.  The twins rested their heads on his shoulders in unison.

"You are all soggy!" Elros exclaimed, and the more sombre of the pair nodded.

"Indeed you are, Ada."

"Well, you see, I have been asking the waves for wisdom."

"And did Ossë bring you any?" the elder enquired.

"Do not be so silly." Elros swatted his twin behind the High King's back.  "Ada does not need Ossë to bring him wisdom.  He is already clever."

"Alas, Ossë was silent, as were the waves, and I have no more wisdom than if I had stayed inside, for all that I am far colder."

Elrond's eyes pierced him, their grey fire seeming to burn even more fiercely.

"The waves are never silent," he remarked, seeming older than his pitiful handful of years.  "You only need listen hard enough and you will hear them speak to you.  I am sure that they are already trying."

Gil-galad could not help but laugh, his fears already a little assuaged by the innocent conviction of these children.

"We shall see, we shall see."  He paused and rallied his spirits.  "Is it not time for your supper?"

"And yours, Ada," Elros piped.  "It grows dark already."

"Indeed it does.  Shall we see what the cooks have prepared for us?"

The twins tried to scramble down to walk alongside him, but he clutched them close, and together they made their ungainly way back to the palace.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gil-galad sat on the edge of the bed, braiding his dark hair before arranging the mithril atop of it with practised ease, although his thoughts still rested with the troubles of Middle-earth.  Finally, dressed in fresh garments which, unlike his old ones were not encrusted with seawater, he stepped out into the corridor and made his way to the dining hall, slipping effortlessly into the persona of the High King.

Seating himself at the long table he found the twins clamouring at him between mouthfuls of food.  While Elrond seemed to study the contents of his plate carefully, Elros wolfed down mouthfuls, the succulent juices trickling down his chin.  Gil-galad reached over and wiped them from his face gently, only to see the child immediately return to his voracious attack on his food.

He smiled, he hoped benignly, at the assembled host before spearing a piece of meat delicately.

"So, twins, what did you do today?"

Elros immediately began to tell him of the moves the practice master had shown them, but Elrond simply looked at him with eyes he thought were brimming with tears.

"Is it true?" he eventually whispered.

"Is what true?"

"That one day we will kill people with our swords?" Elrond reached out to touch the gilded hilt which rested on his foster-father's hip, and Gil-galad sighed.

"Hopefully not people, no, but I fear that one day you will be forced to put your skills to the test in battle."

The elder twin's childish face contorted.

"I shall do my duty to you, Ada, but I would rather heal people than hurt them…"

There was a heavy silence before the child spoke again, "Maglor said that there has been much blood spilled.  He … he said that he regretted many things.  Was that to do with Ammë?"

Even Elros' fork stilled in its passage to his mouth, its burden of meat hanging in mid-air.  Gil-galad repressed a cry of rage and sorrow.

_*He should not speak of such things at such a tender age… He should not even know of the Silmarils and the fate which binds us… He should not worry that one day he will lift a wrathful sword and smite down our enemies.  He should play in the sand and gather shells, and know no more than that…*_

Love for these twins, so old before their time, swept through him as he saw answering grief in Elros' eyes.

_*There is no easy way to speak of this*_

"Yes," he stated bluntly.  "Such strife has occurred because of the jewels of Fëanor, and many fell deeds have been done.  But you will only go to war against the minions of darkness."

He hoped fervently that his promise was not in vain.

Elrond returned to his meal, and as Gil-galad leaned back in his chair he caught the gaze of the Shipwright over the child's head.  So quietly that the child, intent on chasing a morsel of fish around his plate, could not hear, the silver-haired elf whispered, "I am sorry."

"Whatever for?"

"I am sorry that these burdens came to you, my son."

"'Tis my duty."

"Nevertheless…"

"Aye, I thank you, my Lord Círdan." Gil-galad rubbed one hand across his furrowed forehead.  "I thank you for understanding."

Their hushed reverie was broken by a cry of disgust from Elros.

"They have put kelp on my plate."

"'Tis for your own good.  Do you not wish for strength?" he reassured the elfling, but the sweet face was marred by an expression of intense revulsion, and he flinched, remembering the twins' rather strenuous protests against the much hated vegetable.  "Does not your brother eat his?"

"I do not!" Elrond's expression was a comical mixture of ridicule and horror.  "I would not eat this … this … mash of orc brains if it would give me the strength of a hundred armies."

Once more the High King looked to Círdan for guidance, only to see that his mentor's face creased in amusement.  Turning back, he rested his head in his hands for a moment.

"Kelp is good for you, and you would wish to eat real orc brains.  This is far better."

It was hard to tell who struck first, but soon both elflings were flinging handfuls of the offending substance high into the air and those around them ducked for cover.

"Stop!  Stop, I say!" Only slowly did the Peredhil obey him, their hands sinking to the table top as the hall fell silent.  The elf reached up to smooth his ruffled hair, only to find that it was draped with strands of cooked vegetable.  Retrieving his mithril circlet of office, he began to pick it clean.

"What in the name of Eru Ilúvatar was that for?" he glowered.  The children looked only mildly abashed despite the green contents of their clenched fists.

"I … we …" Elrond was defiant.  "We did not wish to eat it and wondered what to do with it."

His elder simply stared at him for a moment, his clear grey eyes fierce, and the boy cowered.

"That was not suitable behaviour," he paused and then abruptly burst out laughing until his eyes streamed.  "Indeed, I wish that you had been more circumspect in you disposal of your unwanted food, for I do not believe that this particular shade of green suits me."

The startled assembly began to chuckle, and then succumbed to uproarious merriment as they saw the High King of the Noldor hug his bedraggled foster-sons tightly although the unwelcome vegetable still adorned his dark hair in damp strands.  Eventually, his amusement died down enough that he was able to pick the last remaining piece from his hair, and beamed at the twins, and for a moment at least the weight of his duty was lifted.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The elflings clambered into their beds, exhausted by the day's exertions.

"Goodnight, Ada."

"Goodnight, Ada."

He tucked the sheets around their bodies, half wishing that they really were his children, for they were so sweet and lively yet so burdened by cares beyond their years.

"Goodnight, Elrond, Elros."

He stood in the darkened doorway as they drifted into the world of dreams.

_*Ereinion*_ he demanded of himself, _*you must fight for these children who have no one else left.  For their sake, if for nothing else, you must persevere*_

And with that thought, he settled into the chair, and, watching their peaceful forms and listening to their quiet breathing, surrendered to sleep himself.

FINIS

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Translations:

Ada – father, daddy.

Ammë – mother, mummy.


End file.
